


Five Times James Wilson Made Someone Bleed, and One Time He Didn't

by dreamsofspike



Category: House M.D.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-11
Updated: 2011-09-11
Packaged: 2017-10-23 15:27:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/251945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamsofspike/pseuds/dreamsofspike
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>title speaks for itself ;)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times James Wilson Made Someone Bleed, and One Time He Didn't

1\. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

At eight years old, James Wilson’s personality was already mostly developed. He was an oldest child, very intelligent and studious, and already ingrained with a sense of responsibility and duty, seasoned with a heavy dose of Jewish guilt.

 

That was how an adult might have described him.

 

His classmates described him as a “nerd”.

 

James Wilson was used to the fact that he was not one of the “cool” kids. It was nothing unusual for the bullies to trail him home, teasing and harassing him while he did his best to do the right thing and ignore them.

 

What _was_ unusual was when James Wilson finally had enough, and the bully who’d snatched his backpack and pushed him down found himself on the receiving end of the smaller boy’s fist – which was inexperienced, but sturdy enough to do the job.

 

The single blow was all it took to shatter the bully’s illusion of power. He and his friends immediately backed down, slinking away to leave James standing on the sidewalk, staring down at the wet, red smear across his knuckles – evidence of the power he had taken back.

 

He expected to feel guilty.

 

All he felt was very, very good.

 

 

 

2\. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He’d only left Bonnie for a minute, to get them some drinks.

 

Apparently, that was enough time for a stupid frat boy – who had been at the party longer than they had, and was a few drinks farther along than they were – to move in and attempt to put the moves on James’ girlfriend.

 

He tried to use his words alone to drive his competitor away, making it clear that Bonnie was _his_ girl; but the drunken young man wouldn’t listen, pressing into Bonnie’s space again and insisting that he didn’t see James’ name on her anywhere, and he’d been looking _very_ closely.

 

James tried to simply push between Bonnie and the inebriated boy making a nuisance of himself, but the attempt just resulted in a scuffle between the two men. Frustrated and protectively angry, James finally lashed out with a well-aimed roundhouse punch that sent the drunken lout toppling to the floor – out cold, and bleeding from his torn lip.

 

Bonnie was, needless to say, quite impressed. Her mild interest became full-fledged adoration that night.

 

In later years, when James looked back on that night, he sometimes wondered if he might have been better off _not_ defending Bonnie’s honor.

 

 

 

3\. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tensions ran high at the dinner table that Christmas, the one Christmas in all the years they had known each other that House had gone home for the holiday – and the one Christmas when Wilson was single, and therefore vulnerable to House’s ill-advised invitation to go with him.

 

In all fairness, it was really more a desperate plea.

 

Wilson went in an attempt to make the day more bearable for his friend – but it did not appear to be working.

 

He barely managed to restrain his own anger as he listened to one cruel, thoughtless barb after another being hurled in House’s direction. Blythe House seemed troubled by her husband’s cruelty, but did not deviate from her normal course of action so much as to say a word in her son’s defense.

 

Wilson did not want to make things worse for House by speaking up and increasing the level of tension, but as the meal wore on, and John House’s comments grew more and more cruel, he began to wonder if keeping quiet was actually helping anything at all.

 

Blythe looked as surprised as Wilson when her husband actually offered to help clear the table at the end of the meal, and his contempt for the man rose a notch or two with the realization that it was nothing more than an act for the benefit of their company. Wilson kept his seat beside House as he picked up a handful of silverware and held it out to John with a courteous smile.

 

A slight press of his hand in just the right direction… and John let out a hiss of pain, dropping the silverware to the table with a loud, metallic clatter to inspect the shallow slice across his palm where an ill-placed knife’s blade had cut him.

 

Wilson’s apologetic words and expression were nearly flawless, but when he happened to glance in House’s direction, he saw a barely-there look of impressed surprise, and the barest beginnings of a smile at the corners of his mouth.

 

“Passive aggressive much?” House muttered when neither of his parents was paying attention.

 

Wilson just smiled in quiet satisfaction.

 

No one but House ever suspected that the minor injury was anything more than purely accidental.

 

 

 

4\. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He really had no idea why he did it.

 

Cameron reached out for the stack of papers for which House had sent her, and he handed them to her – normal as ever.

 

The slight slip of his hand during the exchange – the fractionally errant motion that dragged the edge of the paper across the place between her thumb and forefinger – might have been nothing more than an unfortunate accident. Really, it _was_ an accident. Wilson hadn’t had any intention of hurting her, even so slightly.

 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he hastened to offer as Cameron hissed in a breath and brought the paper cut to her mouth in an instinctive attempt to soothe it.

 

But he realized in that moment that he wasn’t.

 

It took him all day to figure out why.

 

House didn’t want her, he knew – but she wanted _him_. And she had been farther with House than Wilson had ever been, despite House’s disinterest.

 

When the startling, overwhelming truth finally hit him, Wilson couldn’t help but laugh at how well his friend really knew him, as House’s words from years before filled his mind again.

 

 _Passive aggressive much?_

 

 _Yeah… yeah, I guess I am…_

 

 

 

 

5\. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He shouldn’t have found it so irresistibly attractive.

 

All House was doing was washing dishes.

 

As rare a sight as it was, Wilson found the simple domesticity of it – as well as the affection it suggested, because for whom else would House deign to such a task? – overwhelmingly enticing.

 

He came up behind House, catching him by surprise and turning him around to kiss him firmly and intently, his tongue pressing forward into House’s mouth, gently urgent hands exploring while House’s hands remained useless, occupied by the soapy sponge in one hand and the dripping glass in the other.

 

After a moment, House pulled away, insisting that he had work to do. Wilson’s over-active libido would just have to wait.

 

Well aware that House was just teasing, silently begging for more convincing, Wilson tried to wrestle the sponge away from him, laughing with House when the older man managed to evade his attempts, soaking them both with soapy water in the process. Wilson pretended to lunge toward the sponge, then darted in the opposite direction when House moved to avoid his attempt.

 

The unexpected motion threw House off balance, and without the aid of his cane, resting uselessly against the kitchen table, he hit the floor hard – a moment after the glass in his hand, which shattered against the tile.

 

Stunned by the sudden, painful turn of events, House raised his bloodied hand in front of him, wide eyes searching for the source of the stain. Wilson crouched beside him, babbling heart-felt apologies as he looked House over until he found the bleeding gash on his arm. Thankfully, it wasn’t so deep as to require stitches, and Wilson was able to treat it very quickly and easily – all the while mourning his own carelessness, murmuring his regret over and over again.

 

“I’m so sorry, House… I didn’t mean to… I’m so sorry…”

 

“For God’s sake, will you shut up?”

 

House silenced him with an impulsive, forceful kiss that tasted faintly of blood, soap, and the salt of Wilson’s guilty tears.

 

 

 

 

 _The One Time He Didn’t…_ \-------------------------------------------------------------------

He didn’t mean for it to happen.

 

He never saw it coming.

 

And even once he was in too deep already to back out – he never expected to get caught.

 

Of course – he did.

 

House was supposed to be out of town, so Wilson had been disoriented and confused at the sight of the shadowed figure standing in the doorway to their darkened bedroom. A moment later he realized who it was – and a moment later, he panicked with the remembrance of the third presence in the room.

 

“House… House, wait…”

 

He rushed to speak, unsure what purpose his useless words would serve, as he scrambled to find the light, then stumbled from the bed, ignoring the waking stirrings of its other occupant.

 

But House had already turned and was limping from the room, back out into the living room.

 

“Wait… House… I didn’t mean for this to happen…”

 

House was not waiting for the explanations that sounded so hollow, so meaningless even to the one who spoke them. His coat and hat were already back on, and he was headed toward the door. Wilson stopped him just before he walked out, a desperate hand on his arm, turning him, forcing House to face him.

"Wait, _please_... please, just let me..."

 

Immediately, Wilson wished he hadn’t.

 

The stark anguish of despair and betrayal in those expressive blue eyes was more than Wilson could bear, and he had to look away.

 

“What, Wilson?” House’s voice was hoarse, aching with hurt and disbelief. “What can you say?”

 

Wilson was silent, unable to find an excuse or explanation for his infidelity – at least, not one that would do any good. He had hurt a lot of people in the course of his life, seen the blood of those both deserving and innocent on his hands; but as House walked out the door, Wilson made no move to stop him… because he knew that this was by far the worst of his offences.

 

Not a single drop of blood had been spilled.

 

It didn’t matter.

 

A shattered heart had no use for blood, anyway.


End file.
